“Why are we doing this?” asked one of the men.
“Because Ashhur requested it of us,” Ahaesarus replied.
“But why?”
“Do not question, just do,” the Master Warden said. He turned to Judarius, nodded. “Break open the wall.”
Judarius lifted a great maul he’d had custom built over the past month, solid wood with an enormous steel head. Walking over to a wall of the pit, he braced himself, swung, and smashed it in, exposing the piles of the dead. Another swing and the hole grew, granting them a wider entrance. The men slowly surged forward, clearing out the smaller pieces of rock, unblocking their path, and then they began the work Ashhur requested.
In teams of two, they wrestled bodies from the pile and carted them to the wide empty area in front of the bunker. The corpses were stiff, the bloat all but gone, and their flesh felt slick. Ahaesarus was beyond thankful for the cold, for it had kept the bodies from reaching a far more grotesque state of decay. Removing them from the carts, the men placed them on their backs, shoulder to shoulder in the snow. Ahaesarus worked with Howard, and was impressed by the man’s resolve. He would always look at the face of the man or woman they carried, offering a softly worded prayer before lifting the legs while Ahaesarus took the arms. Never once did he grow green from disgust, nor did he panic or dump the contents of his stomach on the ground, as many of the others did. He remained stalwart and tough, a pillar of strength among much weaker men. Though there was silence between them as they worked, the Master Warden’s opinion of Howard grew.
For five hours they toiled, hauling corpse after corpse out of the pen and placing them in three rows in front of the protective bunker. During the last hour Ashhur descended the wall, joining in with his children, lugging eight cadavers at a time. The god remained quiet, a downtrodden look on his face, which greatly concerned Ahaesarus.
They finished as the sun was climbing the eastern horizon, sending shoots of yellow and crimson above the walls. Howard’s shoulders were slumped, though his eyes were still alive with determination. Judarius led the Wardens to the low wall surrounding the area where the corpses had previously resided, while the rest of the workers began trudging back to their families, with heads hanging. It was only at Ahaesarus’s prodding that Howard joined them.
“Get some rest.”
Howard sighed. “I will. And Master Warden. . you have my thanks.”
“And you mine.”
Before he could leave, Ahaesarus reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, holding him still.
“Howard. . do not lose hope, and do not diminish your own worth. With you at the king’s side, there is still a chance he could grow to be as fine a man as you are. Our kingdom would be blessed by such a fate.”
The Master Steward hesitated, and then he smiled.
“Blessed indeed,” he said, and then began the tiresome climb up the icy hill to Manse DuTaureau. Ahaesarus felt as tired as Howard looked, but he knew he should join his fellow Wardens in dismantling the rest of the low wall.
“Howard is a good man,” said a powerful voice from behind him. “Only I fear he wrestles a darkness within him.”
Ahaesarus turned around. Ashhur stood there, his long golden hair fluttering in the cold breeze. Brown blood and sticky yellow fluid tarnished his white robes, staining the image of the mountain on his chest.
“Then he is no different from all others who walk this land,” Ahaesarus said. He pointed at the corpses. “Even you, your Grace.”
His words sounded harsher than he meant, but before he could apologize, Ashhur sadly shook his head.
“I fear you are right, my friend. My children think our enemies evil men, but the works of evil men are cracked and small and easily seen. It is when a good man succumbs that the earth truly trembles.”
Ahaesarus frowned.
“My lord. . what is wrong? Has something happened?”
Ashhur ran a hand through his golden hair. “Bardiya has been broken. His soul cries out to me in anguish, in hatred, in self-loathing.”
“What happened?”
“I know only that he has taken life.”
Ahaesarus shook his head, confused. “But what does that matter? We have all taken lives here, even you, your Grace. Why should the son of Gorgoros be any different?”
“Because he was different,” the god said. “Of all men in this world, he stood the tallest, and now he has fallen. I can sense his fury, his confusion. It may lead him to greatness, or it may consume him completely, leaving me nothing of the beloved child whose father I once lifted from the dust. Tragedy or triumph; is that not what all great risks leave us with in the end?”
His god fell silent, an aura of melancholy hovering over him. Ahaesarus looked to the rows and rows of corpses, knew he could stand the uncertainty no longer.
“Why are they here?” he finally asked. “This is wrong, all of it wrong, I sense it in my bones. What is it you plan?”
Ashhur met his eye, and in the depths of the god’s stare, Ahaesarus realized there was an ocean of knowledge of which he knew nothing, and a debate fearful in its ferocity.
“My path is set,” Ashhur said, his face darkening. “Do you ask for your own information or in hopes of dissuading me should the path be one that frightens you?”
The Warden felt so small, so humiliated. He lowered his gaze, wondering what had happened to the being of justice and grace that had saved him and his people.
“Forgive me. What are your orders?”
Ashhur turned to face Manse DuTaureau, and Ahaesarus saw Azariah was hurrying down the hill toward them.
“Prepare our soldiers,” Ashhur said. “I sense my brother’s fury. It should not be long now.”
Not an hour after that, the final onslaught on Mordeina began.
CHAPTER 24
"Where is it?” Nessa hissed. Her red hair danced around her head like snakes. “Tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know!” Patrick shouted back at her. “You’re not real! Leave me alone!”
The wraith pressed forward, pus dripping from her eyes, her rotting teeth gnashing together. Patrick turned, but there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded on three sides by black cliffs that rose high into the heavens above him, cliffs whose surface seemed soft and malleable, expanding and contracting as if the very stone were alive. He backed up against one of the walls, and a stream of stinking fluid poured over his shoulder.
“Get away from me!” he screamed.
“You would forsake me?” Nessa asked. “You never loved me. Look at what you have created, you with your malformed body and black heart.”
Patrick lashed out, his fingernails digging into her flesh. The skin tore away with ease, exposing the white of her skull. Maggots crawled over his fingers. With a primal howl, the wraith shoved him backward. Patrick’s feet tangled in the muck, and he toppled over. Nessa landed atop him, pinning him, vomiting putrid slime all over his face.
“Stop! Please stop!”
“The second gate,” the vile image of his sister asked. “No walls have but one door. There must be another. Tell me where it is, dear brother, and I’ll leave you be. Tell me where. . ”
Something heavy struck him in the cheek.
“DuTaureau, snap out of it, dammit!”
Patrick blinked, and it wasn’t the wraith he was seeing, but Preston Ender. He glanced around. He sat on his bedroll in the long shack that had recently been built in their camp next to the Birch Forest. Sweat beaded up on his brow, and the whole of him was shaking. Preston knelt before him, hands on his shoulders. Behind the older man, the rest of the Turncloaks looked on with tired yet concerned eyes.